


spies are forever drabbles

by snakesinspace



Category: Spies Are Forever - Talkfine/Tin Can Brothers
Genre: Dissociation, Drabble Collection, Internal Conflict, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Stream of Consciousness, Vent Writing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-12
Updated: 2020-06-25
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:49:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24683371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakesinspace/pseuds/snakesinspace
Summary: uhhhh this is just where im gonna put all my saf drabbles or oneshots that ive lost interest in :)
Relationships: Owen Carvour/Agent Curt Mega
Comments: 9
Kudos: 39





	1. like a bird on a telephone wire

Curt and Owen lived between the lines, balancing on them with the touch you use for fragile bones and paper thin flower petals. They were doomed from the start by their own hands, wound together with a gentle ferocity only found in those secret hidden loves, kisses in the dark and stolen breaths, learning to take what you can get and be grateful for it. Because every second you’re alive with them out of your reach is infinitely better than the hours of death with them gone, never within your grasp again.

This is what Owen thinks when he climbs the steps of the plane that takes him back to England, away from Curt. He knows that their love is too dangerous, and yet he still loves him. It goes against every principle he’s lived by since he was fifteen, to love this reckless man who tripped into Owen’s life and turned it over like a child with a box of tiny little bits of shredded paper. To love this reckless man so hard it feels like his heart is bleeding inside his chest, blood rising in his throat and dripping down his lips every time he has to rip himself away from the soft sight of Curt Mega in a hotel bed in France, bathed in soft golden light and hair a mess, unguarded and vulnerable in a way that Owen is both honoured to bear witness to and horrified to see, the type of weakness that was forced out, choked down, built around within his own twisted and knotted self.

Owen knows he would be a fool to hope for anything more than damnation when the end comes. And he knows that it will probably come quicker for him than most people, considering his bloodstained occupation and the ebbing urge within him to strike a match and bring everything crashing down, burning such a pretty red colour, welling up in him like blood on a wound at the most inconvenient times. He also knows that it is almost certain that Curt will die, (and be damned too) young as well. There is solidarity between them in that truth, in the knowledge that they can stand before a God that abandoned them and then punished them for it hand in hand before He smote them for their sins. They will burn, and they will burn wound around each other like nerves, like veins, like sinew and muscle and DNA strands. Painfully human.

He thinks that maybe he shouldn't take so much comfort in the idea that at least they might be ghosts together one day. 


	2. on blood and killing as penance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tw: blood and murder warning
> 
> started writing it, had a breakdown, bon appetit

Blood. Red blood cells, plasma, oxygen, platelets. It runs a finite race course around the body, rushing through the heart, to the brain, to the legs, the hands you touch, the cheeks you hold, the lips you kiss. Nothing knows you more intimately than your blood. 

Curt is in the business of spilling it. And he is good at what he does, ruthless. Washed the red off of his hands too many times, like Pontius Pilate but more of a hypocrite, bathed in so much more sin. Death, especially soaked in blood, is not beautiful. It is business, for Curt, and a Greek tragedy for the ones who are left behind, lives cleft in twain like playthings. Curt's just doing his job, reporting for duty, being a good little soldier. Because that's all he is, just a soldier in a suit who gets to drink a little more, is lied to a little softer. 

Blood gets into the cracks, of hands, of minds, of floors. Curt scrubs the blood from his nails with disinfectant and the terror from his mind with alcohol, and sees nothing wrong with what he does to cope. He washes his hands after a dark night in a hotel with another man he doesn't know the name of, the bathroom backlit gently and showcasing the marks on his skin like oil paint art. Bruises and bite marks, scratches like trophies lining the shelves of his skin. Or maybe like brands. 

He washes his hands, and he wipes the blood and the dirt off of his skin, and he knows that it is unworthy of love, at least the kind that is untainted and clear. Curt loves with fire, curling at the edges of the paper, carving out a soft space in which to bury himself, in the burnt, ashy cavity of someone else's chest. Wrap his hands around their heart and hold it, feel it pulse. Feel it live, know how many of these he has stopped. Know that his own does not deserve a single one of its beats. 

The love that Curt should receive is bloodstained, it's winding fingers into hair and pulling, exposing the neck, the jugular, and letting them do so because you know that if they were to slit your throat you wouldn't mind. It would be penance for both of you, the blood warm on their hands, intimate. The love that Curt wants is muddy and scarlet and ripped, a tattered dress in the gutter, a knife through a hand, a fist through a wall. He loves like teeth are pulled, slowly at first and then all at once like a dam rotting itself open.

This is the love that Owen Carvour gives him, a gun pressed so gently to his lips like a kiss. This is the love that he receives, like the punch and then the cleaning of the wound. They fight, they bleed, they burn, and it feels like penance.


	3. somewhere outside my life, babe, i keep scratching at the walls but i can't get in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> curt dissociation time

Curt felt like he was hovering just outside of his body, sunk into the earth like a glitch but not corporeal enough to be stuck in it. Words slipped from his grasp, he didn't know how to move without feeling like he was going to pitch forwards and fall on his face. He dug his nails into his palms hard, focusing on the sharp pain as the world swam and flickered before him. The bed sheets were cold under him, the buzz of the lamp behind him was deafening, like someone had pressed his ears up against it, and every other noise sounded like he was underwater. Fear and adrenaline roared distantly, crashing storm waves around him but he was in his glass box. Metres thick, filtering sunlight in green and swirling as water rolled over his head, over the glass. He curled up, closed his eyes against everything, hid in his box, feeling everything like there was a wall between them. 

He felt hands on him and his skin crawled. The hands were gentle, soft, comforting. They burned. Curt clung to them, clung to Owen, blind and numb, full of sedated urgency that welled up and died down over and over. His head hurt. Nothing was real, what was his name again? Curt. Curt Mega. His name was Curt Mega. His name was Curt Mega and he was twenty seven years old. His name was Curt Mega and he was twenty seven years old, and the year was 1955. Curt Mega, twenty seven, 1955.

Curt Mega.

Twenty seven.

1955.

He felt himself retreat, retreat, further into himself, grasping for something he couldn't quite reach, and felt like a thousand cookie cutter outlines, made of paper, all fit into eachother so ready to scatter through the wind. They moved as one now but how long until they fell apart, shattered, ripped to shreds. He was still reaching, nearly touching, ripping all the muscles and fibres and ligaments and cell bonds and-

It was gone 

He felt himself crumble into himself with a thump, crushing and crushed. The weight was unbearable, there was a ringing in his ears, he could remember his facts like he was reading them through his glass box. 

Curt Mega. Twenty seven. 1955. 

He found his skin slowly, sinking back into it like a ghost returning, giving death the slip one more time and ricocheting around his skull like marbles against wool.

He was going to be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> come join a cool saf discord :)  
> https://discord.gg/AAYrJbU


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